


Grief

by kas_cosplays



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Crying, Depression, Fire, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, No Fluff, You will cry reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kas_cosplays/pseuds/kas_cosplays
Summary: Logan's husband, Virgil, recently died in a fire. This is a first person view of his grief and how he handles it. Be warned, you will probably cry while reading this, as it is heavy on angst and even I cried as I wrote it.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Grief

**Author's Note:**

> CW: grief, death, fire, depression, crying
> 
> I cried a lot while writing this, so you will most likely cry while reading it. Be prepared.
> 
> NOTE: No, I have not recently lost a loved one. No, I have never lost anyone close to me. This is based off of: how I know I'd feel if I lost someone close to me, past experiences with depressing thoughts, and things I have read in books and heard from other people when describing their grief. I also just really got into Logan's mind to understand what he was feeling. If I portray anything wrong I apologize.

No one can prepare you for grief.

I don’t care how many stories you’ve heard. I don’t care how many books you’ve read or movies you’ve watched or stories you’ve heard from family members. None of it can capture the real thing. Even I can’t capture the real thing. 

And the thing that makes it worse is that no one, NO ONE, understands how you’re feeling. You can sit with them for hours on end and discuss your feelings, and they still won’t know. They could have gone through something similar, and they still wouldn’t know. 

They’ll try to understand. They’ll try to make you feel better. I’m sure you know the common phrases.

“He’s in a better place now.”

“I know this is hard, but I’m here for you.”

“You can always come and talk to me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, and I hope you heal over time.”

“I’m praying for you.”

“He’s with the angels now.”

Yeah, neither of us believe in heaven, so that religious crap is more hurtful than anything. And I thought these people knew. I thought they knew me. I thought they knew HIM. But as I stand in the center of the crowd of mourners, I realize that no, they don’t. They don’t know either one of us 

I ask someone if they know my favorite flavor of cake. They are completely baffled by the question, and they tell me they’re pretty sure it’s chocolate but they don’t know.

No. It’s not chocolate. It was never chocolate. It’s strawberry shortcake. HE knew that. He knew everything. But he isn’t here anymore.

They’ll send you to therapy. They’ll send you to a grieving counselor. They’ll text you every morning to see how you’re doing. They try as hard as they can to make you feel better. I’ll give it to them, they really try. Patton often calls me at night just to check in. Most of the time I don’t say anything, but he’ll still talk to me. He knows I don’t want to be lonely. He comes over sometimes, too. Sometimes Roman’s with him. 

I’m sure people tell you how it feels. It’s this ache in your chest that never goes away and never seems to heal. You can’t look at anything in your house without thinking about them. I remember the way he’d make coffee at five in the afternoon, despite my protests. I remember how he’d make breakfast while he brushed his teeth. I remember how he’d always grab a stepstool to reach the top shelf where we kept the liquor. I can’t look at one thing in this house without thinking about him. I can’t even sleep in my own bed without remembering the way he fit perfectly in my arms.

They always tell you about the time right after their death. They tell you about the funeral and the two or three weeks after. They tell you about how much it hurts to lose someone you love. Believe me, it hurts a lot more than they say it does. They tell you about the countless nights you spend crying yourself to sleep.

But do you know that feeling? Do you know how it feels to hug your pillow as tight as you can and sob your eyes out as you wish they would come back? Do they tell you about how painful it is when you eyes puff up and you can hardly blink? Do they tell you that you wake up crying every morning because you dreamed of holding them again? Do they tell you that you feel so miserable because you haven’t showered in weeks and you can hardly get yourself to eat?

No, they don’t. No one wants to talk about the ugliest parts of grief. No one wants to talk about how they truly feel. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I was just so attached to him, so in love with him, that it hurt more. But surely there are people who have felt the same? Surely there are other people who lost their husband of five years? Maybe they’d know. But not one person in my life truly knows.

Do you know what else they don’t tell you about? The months after. I’ve stopped getting calls from Patton. I stopped getting texts from Roman saying, “Hey Logan, how are you?” People have stopped bringing food out of pity and now I have to make the horrible decision of cooking for myself or leaving the house for fast food. It’s as if people don’t care anymore. It’s as if they expect you to get over it. 

The few times that I do go out, people stare. Why wouldn’t they? My hair’s greasy and at that weird length where it’s too short to be put up in a ponytail but too long to be considered a short, good looking haircut. I haven’t gotten the energy to cut it. I wear nothing but black nowadays, and I’m sure my face is never a pleasant sight. Not only have I not bothered to shave, but I’m sure I’m always frowning or on the verge of tears. I haven’t even looked at myself in the mirror. I can’t stand to see how broken I am. I can’t even bare to look at the clothes I’m wearing because all of the black clothes were his.

Virgil. My husband. The love of my life. We were perfect for each other. We had our differences, sure, but we clicked. He made me feel whole. Not many people in my life have made me feel that way. And then suddenly that got ripped away from me the day he died.

There was no warning. No last goodbye. I can’t even remember the last thing that I said to him. I was at work when I got the call telling me that there’d been a fire. He didn’t make it. He was the only one who didn’t make it.

I know I shouldn’t wish ill deeds upon others, but I can’t deny that I wished it was someone else in that building. Absolutely anyone else, I don’t care who. But it had to be Virgil who died. He had to be the only one who didn’t make it, the only one the firefighters couldn’t get to before it was too late. Of all the people, why him? What did he ever do wrong? 

I can’t help but think about his last few moments, how terrified he must have been. He was already prone to anxiety, so when the fire alarm went off, he must have been terrified. Did he try calling me? Was he desperately searching for his phone as he gasped for air? Was there a message waiting to send, but he didn’t have time to press the little arrow? There are endless possibilities to what could have happened and I will never know the answer.

My phone is ringing. I can hear it. A part of me hopes that it’s Virgil. Maybe that’s why I pick it up and answer.

“Hey Logan.” It’s Patton, his voice gentle as ever. “I just thought I’d check in. I haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you doing?”

“How do you think I’m doing?” God, my voice is rough. I haven’t spoken in so long. How long has it been? I can’t keep track of time anymore. I’ll finally get the motivation to leave the house and realize that it’s two in the morning some days. That’s another thing they don’t tell you about grief; time is irrelevant.

Patton said something, but I missed it amongst my own thoughts. I ask him to repeat it, and he says, “Do you want me to come over? I can help you out. Maybe tidy up the house a bit.”

Huh, maybe people don’t forget after a few months.

“Yeah, please do. I could really use the help right now.”

“Alright, I’ll be there soon. Do I need backup?”

Logan looked around his room, which was a complete disaster. “Definitely.”

“Okay, I’ll see if Roman and his brother can come.”

“Please don’t bring Remus.”

“Oh, okay, it’ll just be the two of us then.”

“Okay. See you soon.” Then I hang up and turn off my phone. Being in a clean house again will be nice. Maybe it’ll motivate me to start doing other things, like go to work and get my social life back. Who am I kidding, I never had a social life.

It seems like forever and too soon when I hear the front door open. I let Patton have a key since he came over so much and I often didn’t have the energy to get up to unlock the door.

“Good god this place smells.” Of course Roman would comment on that. How long has it been since I took out the trash? I don’t even know. And there’s probably some rotten food around here. 

Patton knocks on my bedroom door even though it’s wide open. “Hey,” he says in that soft voice of his. I can hear him carefully make his way through my messy room, and then I feel his weight as he sits on the bed. “You’re awake, right?”

“Sadly, yes.” 

Another thing they don’t tell you is how hard it is to move. There seems to be this weight that constantly pulls you down and ties you to the bed. It takes so much energy just to sit up, and once I do, I just want to fall back on the sheets and sleep. I want to sleep and sleep and never wake up. Maybe then I’ll be able to see Virgil again.

“Why don’t you get in the shower? You could really use one. Then I can help you pick out some clothes, and if you want me to, I’ll cut your hair and shave your beard.” He’s smiling, the pitiful smile you give a helpless person. When was the last time I smiled? It’s been a long time. I certainly haven’t smiled since Virgil died, and I don’t know if I ever will again. How am I supposed to feel happy when the person that made me happy is gone?

“Logan?”

Right, I’m supposed to be doing something. I’m supposed to function like a normal human being. That’s overrated, if you ask me.

“Okay, yeah, I can shower.” I slip out of bed and make my way to the bathroom.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and freeze. I turn and take a closer look at myself. That’s me? It’s hard to see details without my glasses, so I lean forward in order to see better. I look nothing like myself. The beard looks horrible on me, and my hair is uncomfortably long. Is this what I’ve reduced myself to? Is this really who I am?

As I remove my clothes to get in the shower, I realize how thin I am. I can easily feel my ribs. How much weight have I lost? Do I need to go to the hospital for it? Should I just start eating a bunch of food and hope it gets better? When was the last time I ate? When was the last time I had water? Everything is just a blur. One day blends into the next and I can hardly remember anything that happened. What day is it? How much have I missed? What’s going on with the world? Why have I let myself become so disconnected? 

The water is scalding hot but I welcome it. It gives me something to feel besides this emptiness in me. It feels nice to shower after who knows how long. I dare to hope that maybe the water will wash everything away.

Patton’s picking up my room when I walk out with a towel wrapped around my waist. He’s set some clothes on the bed. My clothes. I’ve only been wearing Virgil’s clothes even though they don’t smell like him anymore. Maybe this will be good for me. Maybe I can start to be myself again if I start dressing like it. 

Once I’m dressed, I sit on the bed and watch Patton work. I don’t ask if he wants help; he wouldn’t let me help even if I wanted to. So I just watch. I can hear Roman singing as he cleans in the kitchen, but for once I don’t mind. It feels nice to hear music again.

Virgil loves music. No, loved music. He would listen to it all the time. We went to concerts together constantly. Some were violin concerts (my favorite) while others were rock band concerts (his favorite). I wonder if he managed to find music in the sound of the crackling fire as it engulfed him.

There’s a hand on my face, wiping away my tears. I blink and look up at Patton, who’s giving me the same look he gives little kids when they get hurt. I hate when he looks at me that way. “Hey, no, none of that, okay? It’s going to be alright Logan. I don’t want you to think about the past anymore. Just try to move forward, okay?”

Move forward. As if. How could Patton be so insensitive? He knew Virgil too, so why didn’t he understand? Why didn’t he know? Why was it so easy for him to move on?

Because no one can ever know how you feel in a time like this, and that is one of the loneliest feelings in the world.

“How about we cut your hair?”

I must have nodded, because soon enough I’m back in the bathroom as Patton cuts my hair. He knows what kind of style I like, and he does a decent job for someone inexperienced in hair cutting. When I look in the mirror, I see myself again. I’m different than I was last time I looked this way, but at least I don’t look like a homeless man anymore. I turn away and return to the bed. It’s my safe haven, my home. 

“I made food!” comes Roman’s sing-song voice. He walks in with a plate of my favorite foods and a glass of water. God am I hungry, I didn’t even realize it until now. I know I’m eating it too fast but I could care less because it tastes amazing. 

“Slow down Logan, you don’t want to get sick,” Patton warns.

Right, right, I don’t want to get sick. Spending a few days in an unfamiliar hospital room would be utterly awful. I start eating slower.

I drift around the house as Patton and Roman continue to clean. I don’t say much, just watch as my house starts to become recognizable. Still, it’s missing something. It’s missing Virgil.

You never move on after someone’s death. I don’t care what you’ve heard, it’s simply not true. The people who say they’ve moved on are either lying or not as close to the person as they claim. No, you don’t move on. You just shoulder your grief and learn to live with it. You can’t move on, but you can move forward. You never forget. I don’t know how someone could possibly forget unless they developed some kind of memory loss. You just learn to live with it.

I would be lying if I said it becomes more bearable. It doesn’t. Some days are just as bad as the day I found out about his death. But now, I have things to occupy me. I have other things to take up my time. I still think about him, all the time. But I don’t let it control me. Well, most of the time. 

Getting back into society was hard. I needed to catch up on important current events. I needed to get back into the habit of having a schedule. I needed to remember that not everyone who looks at me knows what I’m going through. It takes time, but eventually I find a new normal. A normal without him.

Again, I don’t forget him. I still cry myself to sleep most nights, and sometimes I’ll spray his favorite cologne on a shirt just so I can feel like he’s here again. I can imagine he’ll turn the corner and give me that cocky smile of his, the one I love so much, and say, “Hey, is that my shirt?”

But it never happens. I remain alone. I don’t even try looking for someone new to date. Roman tries setting me up with a couple people, but I always miraculously have something else to do on the day of the date. He got the hint eventually. 

The one year anniversary is the hardest. I show up to his grave with a bouquet of his favorite flowers. I kneel in front of the grave and carefully place them there. Then I cry. I hold myself as I sob and cry out his name and beg him to please, please, come back. Let this all be a dream. Let me wake up in your arms again just one more time, just one more time. Let me kiss you and tell you just how much I love you. And for a moment, I think I feel his arms around me and his voice whispering, “It’s okay Logan. I’m here, and I love you.” But then I turn around and there’s nothing but an empty graveyard. 

No one can teach you how to handle grief. No one can prepare you for it, no matter how many stories you hear. And it’s different for everyone. My story won’t be the same as your story. But it does get better, in the end. It hurts, it really does, but one day, you learn to manage. One day, you learn how to sew up the gap in your heart and move forward, one day at a time.


End file.
